


This Tornado Loves You

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He turns back to the doors, watching eagerly as a new tide of passengers comes and goes. She sees more than one jaded rider turn away to hide a small smile. Like it's impossible not to catch it from him. This fizzing enthusiasm for the moment. For the day. For life. She knows how they feel." Set in June 2013. Minor spoilers for After Hours (5x08). Technically AU, as this ignores Watershed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Brain wanted to write something where they're happy. I know. It doesn't sound like Brain AT ALL. I will try to guard against Whedon-levels of carnage in the final chapter, but we all know Brain drives the bus. Just a summer vignette.
> 
> * * *

He's practically bursting with excitement.

His knees jog up and down and he twists around to people watch at every stop, like he's never ridden the subway before.

Kate nudges him with her shoulder.

"You look like a tourist, Castle," she teases. "You're going to get us mugged!"

He wraps her in a sideways hug and leaves a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. It bumps the bill of his cap up and casts a private shadow, just big enough for two.

"We're going to Brooklyn," he says in a stage whisper. "I think scorned by hipsters is probably the worst case scenario."

She laughs and turns her lips to catch the corner of his mouth.

"Besides, I am a tourist today." He grins into the kiss. "I've never been to a minor league game. I've never been to a game with Becketts. Brave new world."

He turns back to the doors, watching eagerly as a new tide of passengers comes and goes. She sees more than one jaded rider turn away to hide a small smile. Like it's impossible not to catch it from him. This fizzing enthusiasm for the moment. For the day. For life.

She knows how they feel.

He settles his arm across her shoulders. He lets his cheek rest against the top of her head for half a second and then he's off again. Asking about the Mets farm system. Tracing the Cyclones logo on the cap resting on her knee and wondering aloud why sports teams name themselves after natural disasters. Pointing out particularly interesting subway denizens and telling improbable stories in a voice just low enough to entertain everyone in neighboring seats.

The train rolls into the Coney Island stop and he bounces to his feet. He's eager to be up and out, but she tugs hard at his elbow.

He drops back with an exaggerated _oof_. He pouts at her.

"You're the one who overpacked, Castle." She hauls one huge bag up from between her feet with a pointed look. "The least you can do is let everyone else off first."

"Overpacked? Everything in here is _essential_!"

"If there was ever any doubt you are your mother's son . . ." she grumbles.

He gives an injured sniff. "I'll remind you of this conversation when the sun is beating down and you're begging to borrow my umbrella hat with the built-in fan."

"I'll muddle through, somehow." She dumps the second bag in his lap and peers at the loud stripes peeking through the gaping zipper. "Also? If you wear that thing in public, I'm leaving you."

He tries for a scowl, but it collapses. He's not built for it today.

Lately, he's not built for scowling at all.

He's happy. She is, too. They're happy.

The thought fills her up. It makes the air feel bright and easy in her lungs. It makes her mouth taste like summer. It makes her want to kiss him again. To share the taste in a lazy back and forth. But the others are waiting.

They shoulder their bags and slip into the tail end of the stream of passengers. He tries to muscle his way through the crowded station, but she catches the hem of his shirt and he meekly comes to her side. He follows her lead as she deftly weaves them through knots of tourists and natives.

The mob is particularly thick at the doors. No one's moving. She raises up on her toes in her flat shoes, trying to see what the hold up is. His head swings back and forth over the top of the bobbing sea.

He spies a break in the crowd. He smiles and hooks her elbow. He puts his head down and powers them the last bit of the way. He turns and stumbles and apologizes, somehow managing to leave a trail of puzzled smiles in their wake.

They spill out on to the street and he's racing for the corner of Surf and Stillwell. His arm stretches out like a kite string behind him, snapping taut as she lags. He snags the tips of her fingers. He looks back with an impatient grin and takes her with him.

He barrels into Alexis and sweeps his mother's giant picture hat right off her head. He gathers them both into a hug like he hasn't seen them in weeks. Like he and Martha didn't snipe at each other over breakfast and Alexis hadn't come by for dinner two nights ago.

Kate hangs back. She greets her father with a kiss and a quiet exchange of words, but Castle calls out their names hauls them both into the fray.

She casts a worried glance at her dad, but he's smiling at her. He's shaking Castle's hand and clapping him on the back as Martha kisses each of Kate's cheeks with zeal to match her son's. Alexis is the quietest of all of them, strangely, but she ducks her head against Kate's shoulder with a smile and a warm, shy embrace.

"Sorry about Dad," she whispers. "It must have been like having a giant puppy on the Q train."

"A mostly well-behaved puppy," Kate agrees with a laugh.

She squeezes the girl's shoulder and bats at Castle's cheek as he leans in between them, demanding to know if they're conspiring against him.

They answer _Yes_ in chorus, but he looks down at Alexis's arm where it loops easily through Kate's and he can't even muster a mock-wounded frown before he turns away again.

"One hour to game time," he declares, raising his voice above the group's easy chatter. "I have an urgent need for greasy food. Becketts, lead the way!"

Kate's father surprises her by taking Martha's arm. He falls in step beside her and points them all at the ballpark's main gate.

Worry knots for half a second under Kate's ribs. It's been six months - seven, really - and she knows her dad and Martha found common ground in the wake of that first disastrous dinner.

But she still worries it's too soon for this. That they're still months from joking and any second there'll be stilted conversation and thinly veiled insults. But Castle tips his head at the two of them-their parents walking arm in arm-and smiles so wide that the worry flits away into nothing.

Martha gestures broadly at the Parachute Jump looming in the distance. Loose, cool-looking linen whips around her ankles and floats at her wrists as she regales him with some story about a Coney Island show of hers back in the day.

It has her dad laughing quietly and shaking his head. He adds his own reminisces. He grew up in the city, too, and he tells stories Kate hasn't heard in years. One or two she doesn't know at all.

The worry flits away into nothing and Kate tastes summer.

Alexis surprises her, too. She hangs on to Kate's arm and shoos Castle away. "I hardly got to talk to Kate at all the other night," she scolds. "You go bother Gram."

He musters up an injured look for its own sake, but he shrugs the next second and steps up on Martha's other side. Alexis waits a beat or two. She waits to see if the puppy will come bounding back, but he slips easily into the conversation ahead of them. He listens and laughs and warns Jim against his mother's greater sins in the name of artistic license.

Kate watches Alexis out of the corner of her eye. She's smiling, but Kate knows the lines gathering on the girl's forehead.

She used to think that Alexis didn't look much like Castle. That even the pale blue of her eyes was more Meredith than him. But she knows those lines. She knows how the two of them carry their troubles. Father and daughter.

Kate bumps her hip and gestures toward Castle.

"He's been like this for days, you know," she murmurs. "Giant puppy. He's really happy you're home."

"Even though I'm not 'home'?" Alexis makes unhappy air quotes with her free hand.

"You're home. You're here." Kate lifts her palm toward the three in front of them. "You're making time for this. For him."

"Like I wouldn't. I miss him and Gram like crazy." She's scoffing. She's exasperated, but she's worried, too. "Columbia's just a few stops away, but . . . we really _did_ talk about it. Me going right back to the dorms. And I know I just got back from Costa Rica, but they almost never ask Freshman into the summer program. . . ."

Kate lets her talk. It's a story they both know, but she lets the words make their way up and out, and sees that some of the worry goes with it. She nods. She wraps her fingers tighter around the girl's elbow and tells her that she knows. That he knows. That he remembered the conversation all along. That he's proud of her and brags to anyone who will listen, but he just needed a few days to feel sorry for himself.

She worries that her own words are wrong. That she's saying too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, but some of the clouds lift. Some of the lines smooth out and she's not carrying so many troubles.

"You're taking care of him," Alexis says suddenly.

Kate's mouth opens to answer. To say she's trying. That they take care of each other. But it's not a question.

Their heads turn together at the sound of laughter from in front of them. They watch as Jim says something in a low deadpan. Martha's head tips back. Her tripping laugh rises up and carries. Castle leans in as her hat spills backward. He dances back and catches it, smiling back at the two of them as he spins and presents the rescued hat to his mother with a flourish.

"He's happy," Alexis says, and it's a realization for her.

It's strange to Kate. She'd have said he's a happy person. For most of the time she's known him, she'd have said he was happy. But today-lately-he wears it with a difference. It's more. It's the real thing.

"I think so." Kate nods. She smiles and pulls them along a few running steps to catch up. "As long as there are days like these. He's happy."

  



	2. Chapter 2

"The seats are ok?" he asks quietly.

They're climbing to the top of the stadium. The three of them. Exploring.

Alexis strikes out ahead of her, and Castle brings up the rear. Kate looks over her shoulder. Past the hopeful smile and the familiar lines of worry, down to where Martha and her dad are holding down the fort.

The seats are more than ok. Third and fourth rows back along the third base line with a view of Coney Island looming beyond right field. She glances toward the luxury suites behind home plate and knows they were probably his first instinct.

But that's not where they ended up, and for all the casual anarchy of this—riding the subway out and meeting up "early" with no real plan—she knows he's thought about every detail.

The intimate, low-key vibe of minor league game, but making sure it was the team's home opener, because he can't resist making it an occasion. The careful choice of seats and a comment her dad made in passing months ago. That he likes to be down close to the field when he can.

Her own memories. What she likes and what she doesn't. All of it coaxed out of her without her even realizing it. Months ago.

_Months ago._

Not long after that night on the run, in fact. The night she thought she'd lost him with nothing more than one hard kiss to make up for how stupid they'd both been. The night they faced the fear and relief in their parents' eyes together and the word _family_ hung heavy in the air.

She remembers it now. Telling him about it in the dark. The best tickets they'd ever had at Shea. Some lucky chain of events and the delicious feeling of staying out late on a school night. Just her and her dad on a warm spring evening. Staying out late and coasting home on the train.

She remembers the way it came back to her. Detail after detail, and she remembers thinking he was listening even though his head was tucked into her shoulder. Even though his sleepy questions and smart comments came at long intervals while she ran her fingers through his hair.

She remembers thinking he was up to something, the way he was hanging on every word. All that lazy patience in the dark as she told him how she and her dad had loved being able to look right into the home dugout. How they watched all the little dramas of the game unfold.

She knew he was up to something, but she nodded off with the memory on her lips, and she hadn't thought much about it since.

She sees it now, though. How long he's been thinking about this.

Even the stupid things he packed in the bags. Things to keep Martha comfortable and occupied. And the game itself. Tantalizing stories of rising stars for her and a carefully chosen date for Alexis. One of the first possible dates since she got home, but not so soon after that she feels scheduled within an inch of her life.

He's overdone it a little. But he's thought about all of it.

She stops abruptly. She wants to thank him. To throw her arms around him and thank him for wanting this. For making it happen. For riding the subway with her and climbing stadium steps and being her family.

 _Later,_ she thinks. _Later._

For now, she smiles as Castle bumps against her. She half turns toward him and sees all the things he's not saying. How he wants it to go well. All the things he's thought about and weighed to make this happen. To make all of it happen.

"The seats are great, Castle. _This_ is great." She winds an arm around his neck. She leans into him, a head taller from the step above. She nudges his gaze to follow hers. Her dad is standing, hands on hips, taking in the field. He gestures and looks back to Martha as she sits forward to find something he's pointing out. "That's happy Beckett face. I know it's hard to tell."

"Not so hard," he says against her ribs as he drags a hand up the outside of her thigh. "Not always."

"Guys!" Alexis's voice is sharp. She's high above them now. Laughing down and making a face. "Gross! Keep up."

"Yeah, Castle, gross!" She tugs his hand up to more family friendly environs and puts on a burst of speed. "Keep up."

They reach the top, laughing and out of breath. They take their time. The three of them.

They wander in and out of stores. They climb down and up again. They lean over railings and peer into corners and take in the bits of history in the display cases.

And Castle samples every foodstuff in sight.

"How can you _possibly_ eat any more?" Alexis presses a hand to her stomach as she and Kate wander up behind him at yet another stall.

"Knish?" Kate tips her head back to take in the not-at-all-appetizing photograph on the menu board. She makes a face. "Is ballpark knish a good idea?"

Alexis shakes her head, but she's staring, fascinated, as he bites in.

"Not a good idea," he says around a mouthful. His eyes roll back in bliss. "A _great_ idea."

"Let me try!"

Alexis reaches for it, but he holds it high above her head. "How could you _possibly_ eat any more?"

"Castle!" Kate comes up behind his shoulder and reaches, but in her flat shoes he has too many inches on her. "You'd deny your kid food?"

"And my girlfriend." He lifts his other arm and pulls off another piece. He shoves it into his mouth with dripping fingers. "No knish for the unbelievers."

Kate meets Alexis's eyes and nods. She gets the message. Kate goes up high. Castle falls for it and raises on his toes, holding the paper plate in both hands as Alexis dives for his midsection, fingers outstretched and wriggling furiously.

Castle shrieks. His elbows pull in sharply. Kate grabs the plate and makes off with it. Alexis tears off after her, leaving him gaping and rooted to the spot. The two of them huddle together, laughing and polishing off the rest of the knish.

He stomps after them, blinking in horror as Kate holds up the empty plate. "I can't believe you stole food from me. The two of you _conspired_ to steal food from me!"

"Don't take it so hard, Castle. You got something better than knish." Kate licks her fingers. "You got to be right. Ballpark knish was a _great_ idea."

"Mmmmm. So great," Alexis agrees with a laugh.

"You think you're funny." He winds an arm around each of their necks. He's trying for menacing, but the smile underneath is ridiculous. He's ridiculous. "You both think you're funny, but my retribution will be swift and terrible."

"Oooh, I'm trembling!" Alexis ducks away. "Aren't you trembling, Kate?"

"Definitely," Kate agrees as she pushes free of Castle's hold.

"Oh, you will be, Beckett," he rumbles in her ear as she catches his fingers.

"Dad! I thought we talked about being gross," Alexis says over her shoulder.

"Retribution, daughter." He tugs Kate back toward him, wrapping an arm firmly around her waist. "Swift! Terrible! Gross!"

Kate's mouth opens and closes. She feels her cheeks flush hot and she'd gladly throw Castle over the nearest railing. She starts to peel his fingers from her hip as Alexis whirls around and she sees answering pink climbing up from the girl's collarbones.

She starts to disentangle herself. To put a respectable distance between them, but something stops her. The weight of his hand or the way he's holding his breath a little. Something passes between them—him and Alexis—and she waits. She walks beside him.

Alexis raises an eyebrow. It's him. It's his gesture exactly, and Kate suddenly wonders if she looks like Meredith at all.

"Touché," she says. Her grave expression hardly lasts an instant, then she's smiling. Leading the way again. The three of them. Exploring. "We need make it to the right field corner. You can see the ocean from up there and practically lean out over the amusement park!"

It's like him again. The sudden shift of mood from heavy to light. Something that needs settling, done in a moment. She's over it, whatever it was, and it strikes Kate just then how young she looks.

How she's been holding herself carefully so far. Pointedly giving the two of them their space. Measured and deliberate, even when she's teasing.

Kate sees that in retrospect. She sees how she's let go now. Whatever it is that passed between them—father and daughter—she's let something go, and she looks so young now.

The colored lights flicker over her skin and she turns toward them. She dances backward and chatters excitedly. And she's not just the quiet, steady young woman of the last five years. She's a wide-eyed little girl who hasn't lost the magic in the sight of the familiar ocean.

In the moment, Kate sees what he sees. What makes him worry as much as it makes him proud. That she's a happy, trusting adventurous soul and there's so much good and so much heartache waiting out there for her.

Kate straightens her arm and tugs her fingers down along with Castle's. She goes up on her toes and plants a kiss on his cheek. She bumps along next to him and rests her head on his shoulder for a few stumbling steps.

He smiles down at her, blinking and a little surprised. "What was that for?"

"For you," she says. "For being good at this."


	3. Chapter 3

They just beat the starting line ups. The three of them fall panting into their seats just as the announcer's voice booms out over the crowd. It's cooler down here close to the field.

They sit three across one row with two seats directly behind. Kate ends up next to Martha with Castle and Alexis flanking her dad just below them. The sun falls on their backs as the two of them lean in to watch him jot the batting order into his old scorebook.

Something about it—something about the whole scene—traps Kate's breath high and tight in her chest. She looks up and away. Beyond the field to the lazy breeze curling round the outfield flags. She breathes.

It's not nerves or worry. Her fingers still tingle with the warmth of Castle's hand in hers. Everything is gold and shadows and the easy back and forth between them all is like music. It's just . . . strange.

Her dad's scorebook is an ancient thing with a dusty maroon cover and a huge spiral binding. She recognizes the thick rubber band around its bulging midsection—the same one since she was a kid—and her father's trusty old mechanical pencil tucked underneath it.

She hasn't seen it in years. It's an odd feeling now. A peculiar kind of resonance to have Castle's fingers closing around the dull, scarred metal of the pencil's barrel. To see him tapping it against the edge of the scorebook, peppering her dad with questions and scrawling notes in his own moleskin.

She watches her dad as he flips through from the beginning. He's smiling. Patient as his finger sweeps along diagrams and a jumble of abbreviations to explain the basics of scorekeeping.

She half expects to see herself settling in at his side. An eager little girl reaching for the pencil. Making careful marks and looking to him for approval. A self-conscious teenager feigning indifference. Honor bound to seem bored with everything, but secretly still in love with all of it. The reliable rhythms and complicated rules. The sun beating down on green grass and the sharp, reassuring crack of the bat.

Her whole life, this has been something they've shared. A constant that's carried them through loss and hard times. It stretches out, before and after her mom. It stretches forward to here and now and it's strange.

It's strange that it's not her. It's Alexis at his side, and the stories are all new. She's nodding and wide eyed and eager, rapt as she drinks it in. As her dad flips back to the very beginning and tells her—tells them both—about the oldest games. About Ebbets Field and Brooklyn before the Dodgers left for LA.

Kate leans forward, listening. She mouths the match ups and ballparks and final scores to herself a split second before her dad turns each page. It's been years and everything she remembers washes over her. It's all still there. Good memories tucked away for too long and she wonders why. She wonders if she would have taken them out again on her own.

She reaches forward and brushes her fingers over the back of Castle's neck. Another thank you for all this. He turns. He grins up at her briefly. Turns his cheek and presses it to her fingertips, but he's distracted. Her dad is in the middle of story and he wants to hear it.

She smiles down at her own knees. Her dad's jokes are trusty and old, too. Each and every one the same since she was a kid, but the three of them are laughing out loud and it's _strange_.

"I see it now. The _passion_."

Kate jerks upright, utterly startled by the sound of Martha's voice and ready to die of embarrassment. She wonders how long she's been ignoring her. Not even looking at the woman while she eavesdrops on the conversation below.

"Martha I . . ." she stammers as she lays a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. How rude . . ."

"Not at all, darling." Martha waves her off. "That's what I'm saying. It's not boring at all, is it? It's _marvelous._ "

"Wow . . . we're only through an inning and a half." Kate smiles. "You're a fan already?"

"Oh, not the _game_. That . . ." She catches herself. Purses her lips and makes an imperious gesture. "Well, I suppose it's an acquired taste and we shall see soon enough if it is destined to be acquired by yours truly, but that's beside the point. I'm talking about the _legacy_ . . . I understand it perfectly now. All these stories. Taking gorgeous days like this and wrapping them up in something like that."

Kate follows the pale, elegant line of her hand and the bright flick of her fingernails toward the scorebook. It's open to an old game. She recognizes the careful lines of her father's boyish handwriting, so different from the slanting capitals she knows better. Alexis traces the initials next to the final scores, an entirely different scrawl: _MJB._

"Your grandfather?" Martha asks, lifting her chin toward the page.

Kate nods. She smiles again as her dad flips forward a dozen games or so. He points out his own initials: _JMB_ in tentative pencil. The pages fall open easily from long habit.

"Big day," she tells Martha. "He let my dad sign off on his first game."

Castle laughs at the stories that go with it. Kate can't hear her dad's voice over the busy hum of the crowd, but she knows how he tells it. She knows exactly how he tells it. She laughs along when Castle runs a finger over the faint marks the eraser left when her grandfather got up in the middle of the night to make some "corrections."

She misses him. Her grandfather. She misses kneeling on the seat beside him to sneak candy from his pocket. She misses the broad easy smile and him telling her dad to let her be.

It's an abrupt ache, and the sun slips behind a cloud. She braces. She digs her heels in against it. Unexpected, unwelcome sorrow on a day like this. She resists, but something gives. The words come. It takes her a second to realize the voice is hers. That she's turning to Martha.

"I must have heard that story a hundred times." She tilts her head toward her father. "From both of them. My grandfather told it right up to the end. Even when he thought I was his little sister and the nursing home was Saratoga Springs right after the war, he remembered every single thing about that day."

"My father couldn't remember his own middle name at the end, but he knew every single code from the mind-reading act." Martha pats her hand with a quiet laugh.

They lapse into comfortable silence, watching the scene in front of them unfold. Alexis and her dad are deep in conversation. She sketches something on the back of her program—some complicated, hypothetical outcome for the last play on the field—and he nods encouragement.

Castle falls quiet. It's not like him. The way he holds himself apart and takes the two of them in. Something complicated flits across his features. Something fond and awed and a little sad, she thinks.

"Did he know them?" Kate asks suddenly. "Castle . . . Rick. Did he know your folks?"

Martha hesitates. Kate presses her lips together like she'd call the words back if she could. Martha sees it. She sees the discomfort and dismisses it with an airy wave.

"I saw them once or twice after he was born. But he was just a baby then. I wouldn't think he'd remember." She shakes her head. "He'd have _adored_ my father, but I didn't bring Richard when he. . . . He wasn't a well man in his last years. And I suppose it seemed complicated at the time."

Her lips twist in a rueful smile. Kate doesn't know what to say. She thinks she has no idea one second, but it's simple the next.

"He's glad Alexis has you," she says in a low voice. "He's glad _he_ has you."

Martha's eyebrows arch in surprise. She knows, but it's not something the two of them talk about. It pleases her, though. A soft sadness lifts from her shoulders and Kate can see that it pleases her.

"Thank you dear," she says just as quietly. "Thank you for that."

Kate nods. She's glad.

It seems like enough, and this is strange, too.

She and Martha talk all the time. Idle chat over the paper and the occasional serious, late night conversation when neither of them can sleep. But this is different. It's easier in this open space with the crowd around them. With family and history spreading out around them.

Martha asks questions and she answers. She hears herself, but it sounds like someone else in her ear. Someone who's less guarded. Less complicated and wary. They talk about the game. About her mother and how her parents met. Castle's childhood and Martha's, too.

There's something about Martha's way of asking. Its bold kindness and the warmth underneath that won't really let Kate hedge. There's something about it that makes her not _want_ to hedge. Even when the answers come slow and in pieces, she wants to give them as much as she wants to ask her own questions. And all the while, she can't help smiling at the sweep and magnitude of Martha's reactions. The dramatic spin on everything.

It's strange and it's not.

They've gone quiet again, comfortable and easy, when Martha suddenly leans forward. "Oh, _look_ , darling. _Your_ big day!"

Her dad holds up the scorebook as Castle and Alexis crowd around. She can just barely see it between the jostle of heads and shoulders: _KHB_ in huge, wobbling capitals.

"Dad! I only scored like one inning of that game!" she groans as she tries to snatch the book away.

Castle gets there first. He traces the letters with a soft grin as Kate whispers _Traitor_ in her dad's ear.

Her dad just smiles. He's enjoying himself—really enjoying himself in a way she hasn't seen in a long time. It's hard to be mad even if she would like to dig a hole and pull it in after her.

She's shy about this. It makes no sense at all, but Castle's grin is huge and Alexis is leaning in eagerly and she's shy.

"You scored an inning? Weren't you . . . " Castle scans the page. His mouth twists into a puzzled frown. "Weren't you, like, five?"

"Four," her dad corrects. "She cried the whole way home. Insisted it was her fault that they lost."

Alexis leans over and takes the book from Castle.

"1983." She chews her lip thoughtfully. "The Mets finished something like twenty games out of first place that year, didn't they?"

She looks up to find the rest of them blinking in surprise. "What? It's only like my fourth baseball game ever. I researched."

"She _researched_ ," Castle echoes proudly. "My daughter!"

"Twenty-two. Twenty-two games back, but somehow it was still her fault," Jim shakes his head. He turns to Castle. " _My_ daughter," he adds drily.

Castle laughs. He reaches up and curls a hand around Kate's calf.

He tips his head back and meets her eyes. It's a smile and a knowing look and something so happy and satisfied that her throat is suddenly thick. She reaches down and curves her palm at his cheek.

"The weight of the world even then, huh, Beckett?" he says quietly.

"Even then," she says.

* * *

Castle clambers up next to her the minute Martha vacates her seat to find a ladies room.

"Miss me?" He sweeps a kiss over her ear.

She plants a palm against his chest and curls her fingers in his shirt. She tugs him closer and kisses him on the lips.

"Yeah, Castle." She smiles into the taste of cotton candy. "Missed you _all_ the way back here."

"Knew it." He leans back in his chair and slips an arm around her. He lists toward her and whispers. "Missed you, too."

"Didn't look like it." She settles against him, bumping her head against his shoulder. "Dad gonna let you sign off on the game?"

"Probably not," he grumbles. "He'll probably let Alexis do it."

He's trying for a pout, but he doesn't quite make it there. He's watching the two of them with that look again. Fond and a little sad.

"They've really taken to each other," she says carefully.

It's good. Her dad. His daughter. The two of them, thick as thieves.

She thinks it's good, but she doesn't know where he is with this. She doesn't quite understand the way he's watching them.

He hears it, though. The caution in her voice and the question she's not asking.

"They really have." He tightens his arm around her. He presses his lips to her temple and holds her there. He answers the question. It's good. "Thank you."

Her mouth opens to answer again. She wants to demur. Just like with Alexis, she wants to protest. To say she hasn't really done anything.

But she has. They've both done this. Brought their families here together and made something new for all of them. They've done this together.

It's good. She's filled up with light today. He is, too, and she feels like taking a little credit for that.

She tilts her head away. She kisses the fingertips resting on her shoulder and looks up at him sideways. "So . . . Alexis kicked your ass at scorekeeping?"

"She did _not_ ," he sputters.

"You sure?" She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Must be a reason if Dad's gonna let her sign off on the game."

"She's been _totally_ hogging the book," he shoots back. "And your dad's just been _letting_ her."

"Maybe because she's better at it."

"She is _not_ better at it," he huffs. "She just has an unfair advantage."

"Like an attention span?"

"Like not sleeping with his daughter!"

He claps a hand over his mouth almost before he's said it, but it's too late.

It's loud. It's _so_ loud, even though the announcer's voice booms out at exactly the same moment. Even though the Cyclones' clean-up hitter knocks in a run and a cheer goes up from the crowd just then. Even though Alexis and her dad are on their feet and not paying the two of them the slightest bit of attention, it's _deafening._

He goes pale.

She stares at him for a long moment. She thinks about torturing him. She thinks about drawing it out, but she can't. She's laughing. She's doubled over. She's hugging her knees and fighting her own breath and _laughing_.

"Mean, Beckett." He leans over her and hisses in her ear. "That's just _mean_!"

She gets it together at last. She turns her face to his and grabs him around the neck. She pulls his mouth down to hers and murmurs, "Punish me later."

His face darkens and the air is suddenly thick between them. He anchors his palms at her hips as his fingers search under the hem of her shirt for skin. He pulls back from the kiss. Just a millimeter. His breath fans hot over her cheek. He straightens his spine. Sits tall and scans the distance.

She knows exactly what he's thinking.

" _No,_ Castle." It's . . . not as commanding as she'd intended it. It's silky and wanting and about the furthest thing from convincing.

She's thinking the same thing.

"No, what?" _That's_ probably not as innocent as he'd intended it. Partly because his palm is scorching against her lower back and his fingernails are circling and circling the hollows on either side of her spine.

He _knows_ she's thinking the same thing.

"You know what no," she snaps.

"I don't think that's a sentence, Beckett," he breathes into her ear.

His teeth graze her neck and she makes a mental note to kill him later. In the mean time, she can't seem to sit upright and her hands have some not-very-helpful ideas about running over every bit of him she can reach. About dragging him off somewhere and reaching the unreachable bits.

"I see you two are enjoying the game." Martha's tone is dry.

Kate jerks back so suddenly that Castle very nearly falls out of his seat.

"Martha! You're back!" She slaps at Castle's chest and hisses, "Castle! Your mother's sitting here. Get out!"

"Oh, not at all. You two go on . . . you know." She settles into Castle's empty chair. "I'm fine right here. Somehow I think Jim and Alexis might be better able to catch me up on what I missed."

The three of them exchange knowing looks and pointedly face front.

Kate feels like she's going up in flames. She _wishes_ she were going up in flames, but Castle just laughs and slings an arm around her again.

"So . . ." He tips his head against hers. "What _did_ we miss?"

She glowers, but it's hard to hold on to. Impossible when his fingers trail over her shoulder.

She scans the field. It's between innings and the Cyclones' fielders are doing their warm-up tosses.

Kate leans forward and reaches for the scorebook. Her dad gives her a heavy look.

She sticks her tongue out at him. "You'll have it back before Aberdeen is up to bat."

She settles back under Castle's arm. The air is still buzzing between them. She quizzes him on the last half-inning's column and shivers as he skims his lips over her temple. He runs his fingers through her hair and dodges as she half-heartedly fends him off.

He answers perfectly every time. Eventually.

"I knew you'd be good at this," she says faintly.

"I'm _very_ good at this," he breathes.

Her eyes slip closed and she can't help but think that anyone who uses baseball to drag their thoughts back to the straight and narrow is doing it wrong.

  



	4. Chapter 4

  


Castle hands his mother into the back seat of the car. He leans in to shake Jim's hand one last time. They exchange a few quiet words and when he straightens—when he closes the door solidly and turns back with a final wave as the car pulls away—he has this solemn smile on his face and he breathes the night in, deep and careful. Like he's full already. Like he couldn't hold one drop more of contentment.

It makes Kate want to wrap him up. It makes her want to wrap the whole day up or keep it under glass or something. She settles for ducking under his arm. For looping her elbow through Alexis's and murmuring, "Let's go home."

They make the third train after they crowd into the station. The first two roll out, packed tight with Cyclones fans and scores of people heading home from the amusement park. With others in sleek, dark clothing, Manhattan bound and just starting their evening.

The third time, though, they're close enough to the front of the crush to make it, and Kate works her magic. Every inch the cop even in a t-shirt and shorts, she slips through the crowd and finds a couple of seats. She turns to the two of them with a flourish as she drops back into one of them. He offers to stand, but Alexis rolls her eyes and tugs him down between them.

Castle smiles, and they squeeze three across into the space hardly big enough for two. He flings his arm wide along the back of the seat, swaying right and left in an exaggerated version of the train's motion. He bumps their shoulders and leans hard, one way, then the other. He generally makes a nuisance of himself.

"Gonna make you stand," Kate grouses as she bumps him back to center.

"No you're not," he says happily as he kisses her forehead. "You're tired. You're a snuggler when you're tired." He turns to Alexis. "She's a snuggler when she's tired," he stage whispers.

"I'm not sure I needed to know that." Alexis screws her face up in mock distaste, but she leans in and adds her weight to Castle's. It's a pile on.

"Castle . . . Castles!" Kate protests weakly. She works her shoulders side to side like she's trying to get away, but she's no match for them.

Anyway, it's true.

She _is_ tired and this feels good. The two of them clinging to each other and gathering her in. This feels perfect.

She leans into the two of them, heavy, sloppy, and content.

The train clatters along and there's an end-of-day hush blanketing the crowded car. Sticky children with bright-colored stains on their clothes nod in their parents laps. Couples and small knots of friends list together. They swap seats and overhead handles and square inches of real estate to lean a hip against. They prop each other up.

The three of them talk quietly. Comfortable fragments of stories. Piecemeal memories of summer and long, quiet pauses. Nudges and tired nods.

It's been a good day.

They all got a little too much sun. Castle's nose has a new smattering of freckles and there's a wide strip of neck that deepens to something just past brown. Alexis's shoulders are regrettably pink in patches that will probably smart tomorrow.

Castle's palm smooths over Kate's arm. The friction raises a little more heat than usual. He notices and gives her an apologetic look. She shakes her head and presses his hand between her shoulder and cheek. The warmth will be the worst of it. She doesn't really burn.

She's just pleasantly tired with it. The sun and more. Blue sky and the breeze over the stands. The summer day baking into the concrete beneath their feet. History and the new, wide circle around the five of them.

She's pleasantly tired with all of that and now with the roll of the train and the buzz of his contentment. Their contentment. It's a long summer day, and high above the subway, she knows it's not quite dark outside, even yet. Still, she'd gladly race the sun to bed right now.

She lets her head sink back against his arm. He curls it tighter around her and brushes a kiss over her temple.

He and Alexis argue about some technicality of scorekeeping. Some one-in-a-thousand situation. Castle tries to appeal to Kate's expertise, but she waves him off with a grumpy half smile as her eyes slip closed.

"Ooooh, trying to get your girlfriend to play favorites?" Alexis taunts as she jostles his shoulder. "That means you know I'm right."

"I know no such thing," he says airily. He ducks his head to Kate's ear. "I'm your favorite. Tell her I'm right," he whispers loudly.

"No way. I know better than to get between the two of you." Kate laughs and turns his cheek away from her.

"Don't bother her." Alexis tugs him off Kate. "We'll ask Jim. _He's_ impartial."

Kate eyes flick open at that. The easy sound of her father's name on his daughter's tongue. The memory of it fills her up. Two heads bent together, red-tinged with gold and grey lightened to silver by the sun. _Strange._ Still strange, but welcome. _Good._

"Hardly," he snorts. " _You_ are obviously his favorite Castle."

He's scoffing, but Kate hears it underneath his words. Something in his voice that's soft and full and bigger than all three of them.

Kate lowers her lashes. She lets her eyes fall not quite closed. She takes herself out of the equation and watches. She listens and sees it, tease and bicker back and forth, but it's there all the while. Underneath. The day has been strange for him, too. For both of them.

It's not just about their parents getting along or Alexis drawing new lines. It's not just boundaries and links or her being home but not home. Working out how the three of them are together. It's not just the five of them finding away to coexist.

It's more than all of that, and she thinks it's not something he never envisioned. Hopeful as he is by nature, she doesn't think even he saw this kind of possibility. The way they fill in the empty places in one another's lives.

It's more than any of them could have expected.

It's good.

* * *

Kate hangs back as they climb the stairs at forty-second street. This isn't their stop.

She watches the two of them ahead of her. Stiff, upright spines and mechanical steps.

They're not quite arguing. They both want this. They want sweetness of the day to last.

But neither is willing to give, either.

Castle looks over his shoulder. Down the stairs at Kate. He's pleading a little, but she shakes her head. She hates to do it, but . . .

His shoulders sag. A breath of disappointment, but he gives a tight smile and nods. He reaches up. Brushes his fingers down the back of Alexis's arm. She pauses, relenting. She waits as he comes to her side.

Kate lets out a breath of her own and climbs a little faster. She catches up and just hears Castle murmur _Thank you_ as he bumps Alexis's shoulder with his.

"So long as we're clear: You're being unreasonable and overprotective and this is a one-time thing," Alexis scolds, but she bumps his shoulder in turn and smiles. "Because you bought me cotton candy."

"Agreed." He turns to Kate again. Holds his arm out for her.

"Cotton candy," he whispers. "Works every time."

They climb together. The last steps to street level.

Times Square is busy as ever. It's loud and bright. It makes her sad for half a second. It feels like the end of the day—like real life intruding—but Castle nudges her hip. He rests an arm over Alexis's shoulder and tips his chin up.

It's blinding for a few seconds. Spots dance in Kate's eyes, then clear.

It's spectacular.

It's a long, long summer sunset. The sky is streaked with peach and lavender and indigo. Ragged clouds scud along, and the city stark and black against it all. Even the riot of chasing artificial lights, ads flicking over and over, can't quite compete.

It's spectacular.

They stand like that awhile. The three of them, unlikely tourists all of a sudden, with crowds streaming around them like it's somewhere else. Some other city for the rest of the world flowing around them while they stand here, still and together.

Alexis breaks the easy silence first. She kisses Castle's cheek. "I should go."

There's regret in her tone. He hears it. Answers back gratefully.

"You have to?" He's wheedling, but it's a performance. He knows he'll lose this, and it's ok. "You don't want coffee? Ice cream? To spend the night in a luxurious Soho loft, rather than some shabby dorm?"

"Dad." She shakes a stern finger at him. "I'll take a cab from here. That was the agreement."

He hangs his head. Alexis winds her arms around his waist. She crashes her cheek against his chest. He hugs her back.

They untangle and Alexis reaches for Kate's arm.

"Hold up," Castle says before she can get there. He plants a hand on top of her head and Alexis laughs as he turns her in a half circle like a music box ballerina. He unzips her backpack and fishes something out. "Thanks for being my mule," he whispers loud enough for them both to hear.

Kate arches an eyebrow as she moves to hug Alexis. Castle dances away with something clutched to his chest, delighted and secretive.

"Don't worry," Alexis says in her ear. "It's nice."

"Thanks for having my back," Kate laughs.

Alexis pulls back. She holds Kate at arm's length and looks up at her, warm and smiling.

She looks so much like him—so generous and hopeful and happy with a will—that it hurts.

"Thank you, Kate," she says simply. "For today."

"You too." The words are unexpectedly rough and thick. She'd like to blame the sun. The fact that she's tired with it, but it's more than that. "For today."

Castle raises his arm and a cab pulls up. Alexis rolls her eyes from the back seat as he reaches across her and hands money to the driver. She frowns and shoos him out of the car when he tries to say something to the man. Some ridiculous lecture, no doubt.

Kate laughs and mouths another thank you to Alexis from the curb.

He stands, watching as the cab pulls into traffic and Alexis turns away with a final wave.

Kate steps into his back. She slides her hands around his waist and presses her lips to her shoulder blade.

"Don't pout, Castle," she says low in his ear.

"No pouting." He turns into her. He buries his face in her hair and allows himself one sigh. "Not today."

"So." She pulls back. "Home?"

He looks over the top of her head at the traffic. At the lights and strolling couples. Cafe tables with crisp linens and the black faces of the buildings climbing high into the summer night.

"It's early," he says. "And I have you to myself."

"And I have you."

She steps back. She looks him up and down. Tries to gauge whether he's restless. If the empty loft will bring the end of the day crashing down on them both.

Her gaze snags his. There's a drawn-out instant. Heat flares between them. He bows his head. He brushes her shoulder with his mouth. Her neck.

"Have me to yourself at home, Castle," she says in a voice that's low and dark and hardly there.

"Home," he says against her cheek, her jaw, her lips. "Home."

  



	5. Chapter 5

  


* * *

It's a fifteen-minute cab ride from Times Square to the loft. Unless there's some kind of inexplicable gridlock at thirty-fourth street.

There's some kind of inexplicable gridlock at thirty-fourth street.

They've been in traffic for going on thirty minutes. Based on the coordinated plan of attack he has going, she's pretty sure he arranged this.

She has no idea _how,_ but he clearly arranged a traffic jam to fulfill some deranged fantasy that involves getting her naked in the back of a yellow cab.

It's going pretty well for him.

It's got to stop.

"Castle! You're going to get us arrested."

She means it to be a hiss. She queues up the words on her tongue. They're meant to be sharp. Reproving. They're meant to shut him down.

But his cheek is coasting over her shoulder, and his fingers are raking a languid diagonal across her ribs and over her belly.

She's worn out and warm, and every single thing he does feels perfect. The words rumble into his ear and back into her mouth. It tastes like she's urging him on.

"Mmm, interesting fact," he mumbles into the curve of her neck as his thumb dips behind the button at the waistband of her shorts. "No one has _ever_ been arrested for getting to first base in the back of a New York cab."

" _First_ base?" She snorts. She means to snort. She means to snort and roll her eyes and put an end to this whole insane, adolescent groping session.

That's not what happens, though. That's not what comes out at all. What comes out is breathy and lazy. It's dangerously close to a purr, curious and coaxing. Like he has some legitimate argument here, and she wants nothing more than a demonstration.

"First," he repeats. Firm and emphatic. He traces the skin just under the hem of her shirt with the backs of his nails. "All your clothes are still on. QED: First."

"That's not how bases w . . . work," she stammers as his free hand sweeps up her side.

His fingertips graze the side of her breast. Her eyes fly open and meet his. He raises up and presses his lips to hers as though all _that_ was an accident, of course. He brushes back her hair and bares the other side of her neck to his lips. To the sharp, perfect rasp of stubble and a dusting of kisses so light and quick she might have imagined them entirely.

"That is absolutely how bases work," he argues.

Because the world is not at all fair, and he's fully capable of arguing at a time like this.

When he's hovering over her, pressing her back into the seat.

When his lips are otherwise occupied and and his thumb and index finger are fumbling around north and south of her fly.

When they're twirling and tugging experimentally, like they've read about buttons in a book and they're curious to see for themselves how they might work.

When it takes every shred of will in her not to give him the satisfaction of squirming under his touch and arching closer, he's still arguing.

"Who's the expert here, Castle?" she snaps.

That's sharp. That's reproving, and for half a second, she's proud, but then his eyes open wide. His chin falls lazily to her shoulder, and the look on his face is definitely rounding third.

"Literally?" He kisses her. A fleeting press of lips, but it's _hungry_. "You are definitely the expert on literal bases, Beckett."

She grabs at his wrist. She's tired and slow and clumsy with this _want_ he's steadily building. The move backfires spectacularly. It ends up shoving both their hands abruptly lower. She clenches her thighs tight together and _that_ is the exact opposite of helpful. She only just manages to swallow what was destined to be a really dirty-sounding groan.

She flicks a sideways glare at him, and judging from his smug grin, she didn't _quite_ manage to swallow it.

"You're _definitely_ the expert on literal." He shakes off her half-hearted grip. He drags a kiss over her knuckles as he sets her hand aside. He runs a palm up from her knee and stops, pointedly and precisely, at the rucked up hem of her shorts. "But I like to think I have a leg up on metaphor."

His other hand—the hand she hasn't been paying the slightest bit of attention to—suddenly splays wide under her shirt. It climbs quickly over her skin, insistent and without hesitation, until his thumb is teasing aside the fabric of her bra.

She jerks her head to the side with a sharp gasp. If she meets his eyes, she's done for. Her breath comes and goes on a harsh curse. She stares out the window. Traffic is at a standstill and it's hopeless.

He speaks and she's done for.

"Second base." He just touches the words to her tongue. "Second base could get us arrested. But only if you get loud _._ "

* * *

She's not loud. He doesn't get them arrested. It's a minor miracle.

All the same, the driver brings the cab to a not particularly slow rolling stop in front of the loft. And even with a generous tip, the back door is hardly shut before he peels away from the curb.

They stumble together through the glass doors and into the lobby, laughing and propping each other up.

It's not their most dignified entrance. She's absently grateful there's no one else coming or going at the moment.

Somewhere around twenty-third street—sometime after she managed not to be loud—they'd both hit the pleasant, weary point where everything seems funny and there's an erratic stream of giddy laughter bubbling up from both of them.

She skips ahead of him and leans on the call button for the elevator. She turns back, ready to fend off a fresh campaign against public decency, but he's lingering by the desk.

Eduardo says a few words to him in a voice too low for her to hear. Castle nods and smiles, clearly thanking him for something.

The elevator dings open. She's tired. She just wants to savor the day. She thinks about slipping inside and jamming on the button. About racing him upstairs and getting a jump on whatever it is he's clearly plotting.

He turns toward her just then, though, his eyes narrowed like he knows what she's thinking.

She darts through the doors. He lurches after her and just makes it.

The doors bounce off his shoulder as he turns himself sideways to fit through the narrow gap. He grabs for her. She retreats to the back corner and stiff-arms him.

"No touching!" she warns. "Infield fly rule is in effect until I take a shower."

He grabs her around the elbow and yanks her toward him. He falls against her in the same motion. She's off balance and has no choice but to backpedal them both into the wall.

"That sounds like nonsense," he mutters as his teeth graze the corner of her jaw.

"You don't even know what it means," she breathes as she anchors herself against his hips.

His head pulls back. He's thinking about it.

"I literally don't know what it means," he admits. "But I know a sketchy metaphor when I hear one."

"It is _not_ sketchy." She somehow manages to push out from behind him. The doors open just then. She spills out into the hallway and dances backward. "The batter is automatically out and the runners advance at their own risk."

"Totally sketchy. Too many players and it's just you and me, Beckett." He catches her by the waist a few steps from the door. "Besides it's a rule meant to guard against dirty tricks on defense." He pins her to the wall with his hips and lands a kiss so self-satisfied she can taste it on him. "You're on defense."

She pulls her lips away from his with an indignant pop. "I thought you _literally_ didn't know what it meant?"

"Context." He finds her mouth again with his own. "Deduction."

"My dad told you." She slides her lips sideways and laughs against his cheek. "Probably over and over."

"Mmmm. Maybe a few times." He peels her off the wall and tugs her toward their door. "Then Alexis asked for, like, half a dozen clarifications."

She hangs off his shoulder on their doorstep. She wants to be inside five minutes ago, but she can't resist _some_ payback for the knowing look the cabbie gave her in the rearview mirror.

She tugs up the hem of his shirt and sweeps her fingers here and there over his bare skin. He fumbles with the key and stammers curses as her lips make a concerted attack on the back of his neck.

The door finally swings open and there's a moment when she's afraid to look. When she's afraid that whatever he had Eduardo do will be some big production when she just wants a shower and him and the last quiet hours of a perfect day.

But the door opens and there's nothing grander than a new flower arrangement on the kitchen island. Bright summer wildflowers. Birdfoot violets and cardinalflower and white daisies all nestled in among black-eyed susans and Queen Anne's lace in low, wide tin tub.

He turns her in his arms. He crowds behind her and ushers her through the door ahead of him. Short, clumsy steps with his arms around her waist. He half releases her to drop the bag he took from Alexis and set his keys on the hall table.

"Home," he murmurs, wrapping her up again.

"Home," she repeats. She nods toward the flowers. "Pretty."

They are. Perfect colors and a light scent. Fresh cut greens, more than anything floral. A summer day captured.

"Pretty." He presses his nose into the crook of her neck. "Beautiful."

"Not right now." She laughs and leans forward, pressing her weight into his loosely linked hands. "Sticky and gross right now. Need to shower."

"Ok." He nods and drops his hands. He kisses the top of her head and steps back. "Shower."

She turns in surprise as he brushes past her heading for the kitchen. "Isn't this where you tell me that I'm _not_ sticky and gross?"

He gives her a dark look from behind the island. "You're never gross, and I'm ok with sticky. I'm _good_ with sticky."

She trails after him. "You're just going to _let_ me take a shower?"

He's rooting around in the refrigerator, blocking her from seeing inside with the careful angles of his body. He stops and turns to her. "Can't I trust you to wash behind your ears, Beckett?"

Her jaw drops and he laughs. He lets the fridge close behind him as he steps around the island to take her by the shoulders. "This is the part where you get in the shower and I pretend to let you. Then _you_ pretend to be surprised when I join you in, like, five minutes."

He's walking her toward the office all the while, but she digs her heels in at the threshold. She turns and winds her arms around his neck. She's _tired_ in half a dozen ways. She just wants him. Just this. Everything they've already had today.

" _Or,_ " she says, arching up on her toes to breathe the words right in his ear. "You help me shower now, and whatever you're planning can wait till next time."

"It's not . . ." He looks down at her, a little lost. "It's nothing big, I just . . . I want to celebrate with you."

She bites her tongue. She's kicking herself for putting that look on his face. For not just following him the rest of the way when he's made all this happen. She starts to apologize, but lets it go. _No pouting. Not today._

She kisses him again instead. She lets it go and meets him where he is. Here. _Home_ with one more thing up his sleeve. Just for the two of them.

"Celebrate in bed?" She crosses her arms at he waist and tugs her shirt over her head.

He groans. Allows himself a single kiss between her collar bones before he steps back to safe distance. Safer distance.

"Bed is definitely on the agenda." He turns her and pushes her through the doorway. "When you're less sticky and gross."

* * *

He's true to his word. It's not even five minutes before he slips into the shower with her.

She smiles. Lights up with it as his skin meets hers.

He smiles, too. Lights up and heaves a contented sigh as the lukewarm spray hits his back.

"Too cold?" she asks as he slips his arms around her waist.

"No," he says against her shoulder. "Neck's a little toasty. Feels good."

"Me, too." She leans back against him. "A little toasty."

"You're way beyond toasty, Beckett." He slides a hand over her hip and up her belly

"That your best line, Castle?" She laughs and pushes off his body. She reaches past him for the soap.

"Tired," he says as he takes the bar from her hand. "Saving my best lines for the big finish."

He lathers his hands and works them over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes slip closed as he works along the knotted margin of her shoulder blade.

"The next one anyway," he adds with a grin when his hands coax a small moan from her.

"Don't be smug." She snags the soap from his hand and starts to turn away.

"Not smug." He steps behind her, scraping her hair aside as he presses a kiss to the the warm jut of her spine. "Optimistic. Committed to the cause."

"Eager." She smiles as he crowds against her. All of him pressed along the length of her.

"Always that." His hands roam up her sides.

"Hmmm," she smiles. "It's a wonder you ever get anything done."

He chuckles. A tired, open-mouthed huff against her jaw. "I want to make a 'put me in, coach' joke, but I think it's the sun talking."

"Definitely the sun, Castle." She tugs his ear. "Keep that one to yourself."

She turns to him. She lathers her own hands and scrubs them up his arms. He steals the soap back from her. He turns her this way and that. He presses her to the tile and folds her body against his own.

They stumble in and out of the spray, laughing into each other's mouths, making slow, lazy work of things with soap and shampoo. Somehow, between the two of them, they manage a reasonable job.

She stops the water and pulls him from the stall after her. She draws a towel over his shoulders and down his chest, taking her time.

His eyes are closed. He's weary. Pliant and still in a way that's not like him, but there's happiness in every tired line of his body. He thanks her in disjointed sighs and words that don't go together.

She's solemn with it. Happy, too, and close to overwhelmed.

She doesn't expect it. She doesn't know where the sudden energy comes from when he drops the towel over her head and rubs at her hair.

"Castle!" She yelps and ducks away, her hair a wild tumble around her face. "I'll never get the knots out now."

"It's fine," He reaches for her, looping the towel behind her shoulders to reel her in. He drops it to run his fingers gently back from her temples and through the tangled mess. "You just have no patience."

"Are _you_ lecturing _me_ on patience?" She's grousing at him, but her head drops heavily to one side. His nails trip over her scalp and smooth across her neck as he works strong, sure fingers through her hair.

"Are _you_ moaning and hardly able to stand up right now?" he whispers into the crown of her head, his hands never stopping their work.

"Shut up." She hits out weakly at him, but he's right. She collapses forward against his chest.

" _You_ shut up," he laughs. His palms cup the base of her skull.

His touch is skillful. Knowing. It's patient and familiar and just right. They're both the good kind of tired and every bit of her fits every bit of him.

He fans his fingers out and lets the damp fall of her hair spread wide over her shoulders. "There. All good."

"All good," she repeats. She blinks up at him. "Robe?"

"No robe." He pulls on his own. She gives him a dirty look. "No robe for you," he slips past her into the bedroom, pulling her along after him. "Present for you."

He starts to turn her toward the bed, then changes his mind. He steps in front of her. "Close your eyes. And hands up."

"Castle . . ." She sighs.

"Kate . . . " he mimics. He crowds closer to her. He kisses her cheeks. Her forehead. His palms slide up her back and around, up, and over her shoulders. "Please? Petty please."

She rolls her eyes. She lets her lids fall shut and holds her hands up at shoulder height.

"Thank you." He kisses her. Hot and sudden and sweet and grateful. "Up. All the way up." He gathers her wrists high above her head in one broad palm and she can't catch her breath all of a sudden.

"Just like that," he murmurs. "One second."

He lets her go. He steps back from her. A sudden loss of warmth and she feels open. Vulnerable and wanting and foolish.

"Castle . . . "

His name just breaks from her lips and he's there, both hands catching hers. Threading her hands into sleeves and controlling the soft fall of fabric over he head. Settling something on her shoulders and easing her arms down.

"There," he says. His voice is low and thick with warmth and want and a long day in the sun. With family and the two of them and days like this as far as the eye can see.

"There," he says again and she opens her eyes.

It's nice.

It falls just past her hips. A long-sleeved, heavy t-shirt with the logo and the team name just beneath the modest vee neck. It's the team's traveling gray, with the writing and stripes on each sleeve in the familiar shade of red.

She pulls the hem out, peering down.

There's a cluster of ink at the right hip. A ring of initials around the date and the final score. A three–nothing Cyclones victory. He must have scrawled that just now along with the practiced, oversized sweep of his own monogram.

She doesn't know how or when he managed the rest. How or when he distracted her to capture her dad's neat capitals and the less familiar sight of Martha's flourish and _AMC_ in girlish loops.

" _M._ " She traces the letter. She looks up at him, eager to know. To keep on knowing him today. "What's Alexis's middle name?"

"Madeleine," he answers. "My mother's mother."

"You didn't know her," she says quietly. She thinks about telling him. That Martha wishes she'd made different decisions. Given him something more like family.

She thinks about it and decides it'll keep. That it's a conversation the two of them might have on their own. That it's the kind of talk that might seem easier after the next day like this or the one after that.

"I didn't." He shakes his head, a little sorry, but too caught up in her—in them and here and now—to really give it a thought. And anyway, he's happy. He has practice at being happy.

He runs light fingers down her arms. Over the fabric of the shirt, like he loves the very feel of it.

He might. She does. She loves it.

It's soft and loose like she's worn it for years and washed it a hundred times. Like she's curled up in it on fall afternoons and dreamed of next year. Like she's pulled it out every spring. Slipped it on and felt the promise of summer on her shoulders.

She meets his eyes. Takes in the rest of the scene, finally.

It's not too much.

There's champagne chilling. Two flutes and a scattering of strawberries arranged around a handful of flowers that she thinks he must have borrowed from the tub on the kitchen counter.

It's not too much at all.

"It's ok?" He takes one step back from her.

He's taller than her with both of them in their bare feet, but he's looking up at her anyway, somehow. Questioning and knowing, like he's in love with all of her and wants to know if she is too.

She is. She's in love with every bit of him. With all of this.

"It's ok," she says quietly. She tugs at the hem of the shirt. She runs her fingers over her hip. All of them—the whole day—anchored there on the soft fabric. She smiles at him. She hopes he knows, because she doesn't have words enough for this. "It's great."

She steps into his body. She takes the tie of his robe in both her hands and tugs. She launches herself into him. Lets him take the weight of the two of them down and down and down to the mattress.

"It's perfect."

  



End file.
